Date: Sun, 14 Jan 2007 09:20:37 -0500
From: carl_mason@comcast.net
Subject: PROFESSOR KENYON - 1
PROFESSOR KENYON - 1
Copyright 2006 by Carl Mason
All rights reserved. Other than downloading one copy for strictly personal
enjoyment, no part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, except for reviews, without
the written permission of the author. However based on real events and
places, "Streets of New York" is strictly fictional. Any resemblance to
actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental. As in real life, however, the sexual themes unfold
gradually. Comments on the story are appreciated and may be addressed to
the author at carl_mason@comcast.net
If you would like to read additional stories by this author, turn to the
"Authors/ Prolific Authors" link at the beginning of the Nifty Archieve.
This story contains descriptions of sexual contact between males, both
adults and teenagers. As such, it is homoerotic fiction designed for the
personal enjoyment of legal, hopefully mature, adults. If you are not of
legal age to read such material, if those in power and/or those whom you
trust treat it as illegal, or if it would create unresolvable moral
dilemmas in your life, please leave. Finally, remember that maturity
generally demands safe sex.
CHAPTER 1
(Moving In)
The sharp cold of a December day cut right through him, as did the light
rain that had begun to fall. It wouldn't be long, the young man thought,
before it would turn to snow. "I know damned well," he muttered to
himself, "that it's in this block." Impatiently, he peered through the
gloom down the row of comfortable old houses that lined the street of the
old college town. "Yeah, third on the left," he muttered again, as he
checked a piece of paper in his hand. Jogging - for, despite his jacket,
he was beginning to freeze - he crossed the street and turned into the
walkway of a brown, three-story clapboard house. Quickly loping up the
stairs and onto the wide porch, he sighed with relief as he pushed the
buzzer and stood back.
After a few moments, the door opened to disclose a tall man in glasses,
wearing a sweater, and holding a partially open newspaper. Thirties, the
youth thought. The rich golden light and a breath of warm air poured out
of the open door. "Uhm," the youngster began, "I'm Brad Colby. Are you
Professor Kenyon, Professor John Kenyon?" "Yes, indeed, Brad," the man
replied. Smiling slightly, he added, "Come in before we both freeze!
Nasty afternoon..." They stood in a large entryway with rooms opening to
the left and the right and stairs leading upwards. Polished wood gleamed
in the light from an ornate table lamp. "Here, Brad, let me take that
coat." Good-looking and sandy-haired, the solidly-built youth gratefully
slipped out of his heavy jacket, handed it to his host and, as
unobtrusively as possible, shook himself to restore a little circulation.
"You're cold," the professor murmured. "Come into the living room and let
me get you some mulled cider. It's the only thing I know that will take
off the chill without putting one under the table!" Laughing, they passed
into a comfortable living room, whereupon the professor pointed to a chair
by the fireplace and said "Sit! I'll be right back." He returned quickly
with two large mugs on a tray. The smell was enough to make the boy
salivate! Apples, cinnamon, cloves...all kinds of good things.... There
was also a plate with some cookies that the professor placed on a small
table next to the youth's chair.
As he took a chair on the other side of the fireplace, the man grunted
affably, "The only good thing about an afternoon like this is that it gives
me an excuse to make a fire and cook up some mulled cider! I did get a
phone call from the Housing Office, Brad, but to be completely honest, I
didn't expect to see you this afternoon. It's some distance from the
Administration Building." "If this is a bad time, sir, I'll gladly . . ."
the youngster quickly interjected. "Strange," the Professor thought, "it
was as if he expected some kind of rejection. No, no, nothing like that,"
he continued. "Just squeezing every bit of conversation out of the weather
I can..." Kenyon replied with a grin. "Actually, in this part of town, it
difficult to see the house numbers from a car when it gets this dark and
wet. You had no great trouble?" "No car, sir...just me," Brad responded.
"You're looking for a room. Tell me a bit about yourself," the Professor
added in a slightly more directive tone of voice as he settled back in his
chair.
"Well, sir, I couldn't make it for the Fall Quarter. Knowing that I'd
missed all the directions given freshmen in September, I came a bit early
to get a head start on the Winter Quarter. Unfortunately, there's not a
damned thing available in the dormitories... Oops! Sorry, Sir!" he said
quickly and somewhat nervously. "Not to worry, son," Kenyon replied.
"You're likely to hear an occasional 'shit' or 'hell' from me when I bang
my thumb or the word processor screws up again." Brad grinned and
continued. "Not a thing in the dormitories, and I don't have anything like
the money for one of those new apartments around campus. Since I don't
know anyone in this part of the state, a room seemed like the best bet.
The Housing Office was very patient and helpful.
"Let's see," he mused. "I'm eighteen plus a couple of months. I want to
look seriously at the Computer Science programs. If time permits, I'd love
to play a little baseball. It may not, for I really need to get a
part-time job if I'm going to pay for a meal ticket. Anything
really... just to keep in shape!" "Thought you were an athlete..." the
Professor murmured. "You played in high school?" "Yes, sir," the boy
responded. "Lettered in baseball and gymnastics," he added proudly.
"Gymnastics?" Kenyon inquired admiringly. "Yep, all-state on the rings,
and I didn't hurt the team on a couple of other events," Brad said.
(Kenyon nodded in understanding, though he wondered what an all-state
athlete was doing, beginning the school year in the Winter Quarter and,
evidently, not having a scholarship...or much money, for that matter.)
"That's quite a training regimen," Kenyon responded. "You're from around
here?" "No, sir, Pacific Coast, but I've always wanted to see the
Northeast, especially New England." "On days like this, Brad, you may wish
you were back in LA or even Seattle," his host joked. The lad grinned
wryly and nodded. "I've always had something of a thing for staying
clean," he continued, "and I'm used to using my earphones rather than
blasting the neighborhood." "Somehow I thought so...on both counts," the
Professor said reflectively. "Now, I should show you the one room I rent,"
the Professor said, rising.
Climbing the stairs to the second floor, Brad was shown into a large,
homey-looking room. There was the usual furniture: a full-sized bed, desk
and chair, an overstuffed chair with its own end table, a chest of drawers,
and a large bookcase. Brad spotted three lamps. In addition to a large
closet, the room also had its own bath, though, as in many old houses,
entry was from the hallway. The windows suggested that the room would be
flooded with light on a sunny day...when and if! In fact, the youth found
the room's thoroughly masculine atmosphere, especially the "earth colors,"
to be very restful and accepted the contract before the two left the room.
Back in the living room and having offered his new renter a second mug of
mulled cider, the Professor asked Brad if he had any questions. They
quickly cleared up a few matters such as access to the washer and dryer,
the use of the fridge for a few soft drinks, and the like. As Brad's
questions slowed down, Kenyon offered a few comments of his own. For
instance, he pointed out that if he purchased a meal ticket, he would have
to eat his meals at the Danvers Hall Dining Room. Not only was that some
distance from the house, but the house was a good many blocks from campus.
There was an alternative. Brad could work around the house for his food
and a few bucks to keep in his wallet. "I'd only charge you about
two-thirds of the meal ticket price," the Professor explained, "because
around here everyone fixes his own breakfast and lunch. There'll be plenty
of food, and I'll gladly stock anything extra that you want. The truth is,
however, that I'm not worth much in the morning beyond sticking my hand
into a cabinet or the fridge and hoping that whatever I grab is edible."
Brad snickered and admitted that he wasn't much better off! The boy's eyes
lit up. He had been counting his dollars carefully and, frankly, was
concerned that he couldn't do what he had to do if he purchased even the
cheapest meal ticket. He smiled and told Kenyon - whom he already liked -
that he was grateful. He foresaw no great problem in working out the
details. In truth, he felt more positively at that moment than he had felt
in weeks.
"Good!" the Professor exclaimed. "Now there are a couple of other things I
can offer to make your life a bit more pleasant. Come down to the basement
with me. After reaching the bottom of the stairs and noting the location
of the washer and dryer (plus promising a dry run on request), Kenyon
unlocked a door and stepped back with a wide grin. Stepping through the
doorway, Brad found himself in a large, nicely carpeted, and mirrored room
that was completely dry and as warm as the rooms upstairs. What really
excited him, however, was the collection of exercise machines and equipment
of excellent quality and of all the major types. "WOW!" he exploded.
"I've seen gyms that didn't have half of the stuff that you have in here!"
"Just know, Mister Colby, that it's for you to use," the Professor laughed.
Smiling, he added, "I would appreciate it, of course, if you refrained by
bouncing weights off the floor at two am!" With a perfectly straight face
- but with an impish grin crinkling his lips - Brad promised that one
thirty am would be his absolute deadline for bouncing weights! "Seriously,
sir, thanks so very much," the boy added, obviously delighted with the
facility and his landlord's kindness.
"At your leisure," Kenyon continued, "check out those bikes in the corner.
Students have left them when they went home. You're welcome to take one
for your own use. Ok?" "OK! Thanks again, sir!" the youngster gasped.
"Most of the day was miserable, but, thanks to you, it has really turned
around. I'm grateful...really I am!" Roughly brushing Brad's shoulder
with his fist, the Professor simply replied, "Fine, Brad. I only hope it
will be the first of many in this house. Ok... It's getting late and we
have a bit to do. I'm going to go upstairs with you to locate sheets and
towels. If you'd like, you have time to take a shower before supper. Then
I'll introduce you to my gourmet cooking. NOT!" Laughing, the two men
headed upstairs.
About thirty minutes later, Brad returned to find the Professor in the
kitchen, just placing bowls of a great beef stew, salads, and a wicker
basket filled with slices of French bread on the table. When the youngster
couldn't eat another bite, an enormous slice of warm apple pie with a scoop
of ice cream suddenly appeared on the table before him. After several
minutes passed - replete with muttered comments of approval...and an
occasional moan of pleasure and/or of pain - Brad pushed back from the
table. (Needless to say, the dessert plate was empty!) Loosening his
belt, he jokingly asked how many hours he had to work to pay for THAT meal!
"Seriously, sir, that's the best meal I've had for a month. It was super,
and I'm really grateful. I'm nervous about one thing, though. If I say
'thank you' many more times, it's going to sound phony, but I DO thank
you...for your kindness to a guy who came in out of the dark...for making a
guy feel that there are still some 'good guys' in this world." Beginning
to get a little too emotional for comfort, he stopped abruptly, then
shrugged his shoulders and grinned boyishly.
The Professor simply nodded and smiled gently. "I suspect we have one more
thing to do this evening," he said. "Where did you leave your luggage,
Brad?" "In a locker up at the Student Center, sir," the boy answered. "No
need to carry two large bags all over town before I knew what was what."
"Good thinking," Kenyon murmured. "How about giving me a hand shoveling
all this flotsam and jetsam into the fridge or the dishwasher. Then, after
a little wash up, I suggest we get into my car, drive up to the Student
Center, and collect your luggage. That way, you'll have your head on just
a little straighter come tomorrow morning. Make sense?" "Makes all kinds
of sense, Professor," Brad replied. "Believe me, I appreciate the
direction. It's been a long day!"
(On the Morrow)
It was probably shortly after 9:00 am when the good Professor strode up the
stairs of the Administration Building and found his way to the office of
the Dean of Men, Peter Saunders. His secretary buzzed him and then,
smiling, simply pointed to his door.
"Morning, Pete," Kenyon greeted him. "Don't you love these days at the end
of the year when we have nothing to do?" The Dean snorted (loudly) and
came out from behind his desk, his hand extended. "Morning, John. Good to
see you. To what do I owe the honor of this visit?" (On the basis of ten
some odd years experience, there was a certain look in his eye that said he
had a pretty damned good idea about the answer to his question.) "Coffee,
John?" "Yes...thanks. It's cool this morning, though, thank God, the sun
is out," Kenyon responded. A few minutes later, the amenities satisfied
and the inner man responding positively to the hot coffee, John Kenyon
posed a direct question: "What can you tell me about Brad Colby?" For just
a moment, his old friend said nothing, simply raising his eyebrows and
taking another sip of coffee. Then with a sigh, he said,
"That's...difficult to answer, John. I guess we wouldn't be sued if it
ever got out that I had spoken with you. On the other hand, when I finally
appeared at the Pearly Gates, St. Peter would probably frown and tell me
to take the 'down' escalator." "That 'difficult,' eh?" Kenyon responded.
"Why do I have the feeling, Pete, that you had a hand in that boy's
appearing on my porch late yesterday? You working hand in glove with the
Housing Office again?" Again, there was a moment of silence before the
Dean responded. "Well, John, I guess that I never could pull the wool over
your eyes for long. Yes, that was my doing and yes, I'll share the full
story on a 'need to know' basis. Nevertheless, my friend, this is one that
we have to keep a lid on - or risk doing some lasting damage to a young man
who doesn't deserve it. Ok?" "You've got it, Pete," John replied. "And
now, Brad Colby?"
"Colby wasn't here in September...because he was cooling his heels in
jail," the Dean began. "Worse, he had been picked up by the top detectives
on the force - two men who have years of service and reputations for total
integrity - for prostitution... homosexual prostitution! His father, who
has more money and influence than he knows what to do with kept him out of
the papers, out of Court, and out of the sex crime records. My guess is
that this was probably due more to the effect it would have had on his
stocks and bonds business than on his son. I know quite a bit about this
case because I come from the same town. The principal of the high school,
an old friend, got in touch with me. Relax, John, the story gets even
nastier.
"Once the father had erected his 'firewall' around the boy, the son of a
bitch completely washed his hands of him. You know the routine: 'You had
your eighteenth birthday last week. You're on your own, buster. Believe
that I have no desire to see or hear from you ever again. I no longer have
a son.' He then had a truck come to the house, load every single thing
that was Brad's or reminded him of Brad - every trophy, every picture,
every CD, every piece of clothing - and had them burned at the city dump.
"The principal told me that Brad was one of the most promising kids who had
ever graduated from Gordonsville High...a superior student, a fine athlete,
and an all around great kid. To make a long story just a bit shorter, he
arranged housing for Cory, some money from two local philanthropists, and
mental help through the District psychologist. After several sessions, the
psychologist reported that the young man was no danger to others. He had
probably sold his body in search of a few minutes of affection that he had
never received from his father - as well as to satisfy his own sexual
needs. Once he had stabilized the young man and discovered that we had
approved Cory for September admission, the principal contacted me.
"So, John, you now know almost as much as I know. Over the years, you've
accomplished some real magic with cases that everyone told me were
hopeless. This boy is sure as hell not 'hopeless', but he does need our
understanding, our support and, to some extent, our protection. Want to
give it a try?"
Professor Kenyon looked down at his hands and noticed that they were still
tightly clutching an empty coffee cup. Looking up at his friend, he simply
muttered, "Yes." His mind added, "Oh, yeah, that's exactly what you need!"
To Be Continued